Further Arguments With Chip and Pin Machines
by starrysummernights
Summary: Sequel to "Arguing With Chip and Pin Machines." Wherein we have a general misuse of CCTV cameras, couples therapy, murder, a break-up, a reunion, odd puppy shenanigans, declarations of both love and insults, shagging, a wedding, Johnlock, and Mystrade- and that's only half the story.
1. A Daring Rescue

**Hello and welcome to the continuation of Arguing With Chip and Pin Machines. It's not entirely necessary to read that story to understand this one, but it would help since this is the sequel. :) Much love and thanks for reading!**

* * *

John tried to shift into a more comfortable position and, failing that, sighed gustily and leaned his head back, staring blindly into the darkness, wondering how much longer it would take Sherlock to find him.

He'd been here, hands tied behind his back, held virtually immobile in a smelly closet, for…God, at least 10 hours now- maybe longer. There wasn't any way to judge time except his watch and that was pinned behind him. Not for the first time did he wish he'd bought one that beeped on the hour. At least then he would've known how long these idiots had kept him captive.

We really need to stop getting into these situations, John thought, tugging futilely at his wrists and wincing when the ropes scraped along the sensitive skin and burned.

Fuck Mycroft Holmes and his bloody cases, John thought savagely, hissing in discomfort and shifting his shoulders, trying once again to get into a more comfortable position.

From outside the door, he could hear his captors talking but John's Russian only included phrases better suited to picking up a shag than deciphering weapons smugglers dealings. Or well, he amended, _former_ weapons smugglers. Turns out they had much bigger things going on than just moving a few guns.

Fucking great.

Sherlock, for all his bored indifference to his brother at the time, had been manic, excited, _transported_ over the challenge of the case and John had been along for the ride, trying to keep up but failing to understand Sherlock's genius leaps of logic. Hence, he was now here, in the custody of the very people Sherlock had been trying to apprehend.

The voices outside went quiet and John lifted his head, eyes flicking back and forth in the dark as his ears strained to hear…

Suddenly and without warning, the door jerked open and John blinked, blinded, at the suddenly bright lights, jerking in shock as someone grabbed at him.

He was quiet as they dragged him from the closet, numb feet scrambling to find purchase on the rough concrete before he was thrown to the floor, hissing as his knees made jarring contact with the unforgiving floor and his head was jerked violently back by the hair.

He saw the flash of metal and adrenaline spiked through his veins as he realized he was about to die-

The guard to John's left crumpled to the floor, blood running down the side of his face from a large bullet hole in his temple.

John's eyes widened- and all hell broke loose.

Angry shouting- staccato bursts of gunfire, too loud, too close.

The unforgiving grip on his hair loosened and John ducked, pressing himself to the floor as bullets whizzed overhead- more guards fell- warm blood sprayed on his face. He pressed himself closer to the floor, hoping Mycroft's people knew what they were doing and were better shots than he gave them credit for.

Another angry burst of gunfire.

Silence.

Or maybe that was just John, whose ears were loudly ringing. He cautiously glanced up and his heart leapt when he saw Sherlock running to him, looking diminished without his coat, too slender and almost fae-like in head to toe, form-fitting black.

What the hell…?

His hands scrabbled at John's wrists and his mouth was moving but John didn't hear a word of what his fiancé was saying. He gasped when the rope fell away, feeling returning to his hands in painful pulses and Sherlock chafed his hurting hands quickly before using them to pull John forward and kiss him.

Sound abruptly returned with overwhelming clarity. People were shouting, radios crackling, a weird rushing noise above it all, and Sherlock murmuring almost non-stop even as he kissed John anxiously.

"- sorry, I didn't realize they would be at the flat. The curator wasn't on the original list but he'd defected so of course he had eluded notice. I'm so sorry, John. I never would have sent you there alone if I'd had the faintest idea- please, forgive me. You're all right, John?" Sherlock's hands were everywhere, assessing, eyes flicking over John just as rapidly, picking up more information than his questing hands ever could.

"Sherlock- Sherlock, I'm fine. Really, just a bit dazed." John replied, voice steady and he watched, in absolute horror, as Sherlock's eyes welled up and he leaned his head on John's shoulder, burying his face in his neck and breathing shakily, hands clutching tightly onto John's clothing.

"We have a vehicle waiting outside to take you to the nearest hospital, Doctor Watson. Should you require it."

John looked up at Mycroft Holmes himself, his eyebrows raising, surprised to see the British Government himself here doing actual legwork.

Before he could answer, Sherlock pulled away, composed and with no evidence (at least to John's eyes) he'd almost suffered a breakdown.

"He said he's fine, Mycroft." He snapped irritably, standing and helping John rise to his feet. John winced as feeling returned to his feet and his knees throbbed in agony. He was forced to lean a bit on Sherlock, who slung an arm around him and avoided his brother's gaze.

"Indeed." Mycroft replied simply and John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him at whatever it was Mycroft was implying by that but he was honestly too tired and hungry and fucking done with the whole thing to figure out whatever it was they were fighting about now.

"I'm fine, really." He reiterated, in case that helped Sherlock win the argument. "Trust you've got this all sorted here?"

"Of course."

John nodded and began propelling himself and Sherlock toward the outside door and the blessed, welcoming confines of the car.

"Thank you for your assistance, Doctor Watson." Mycroft called after them and John grabbed Sherlock's shirt to keep him from spinning back around, an angry retort already on his lips.

"Just ignore him, love. I haven't eaten in over 10 hours and I'm really needing a piss."


	2. There'll Be a Light in The Hall

**Title for this chapter comes from "If You Ever Come Back" from The Script (it's my go-to Johnlock song but we'll ignore that for now). Let's start this new story off right- here's some fluffy Mystrade :)**

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It wasn't dark when Mycroft entered his flat.

He paused on the threshold, door half open, hesitating as he stared across the expanse of foyer and into the sitting room, from which a warm, welcoming orange light glowed.

He hadn't left a light burning when he ran from the flat earlier that morning. He was very sure of it. Sherlock had been panicky when he called, rambling about smugglers, something about a curator, and losing John, but Mycroft had remained calm. He'd made his own calls and enquires before leaving, and he had been of a sound enough mind not to leave appliances on. He was conscientious about such things.

But a single lamp burned in his sitting room, a solitary beacon in the creeping dark, and Mycroft stared at it for a few moments, puzzled, before moving forward and turning it off, plunging the flat into darkness.

He stayed standing in the darkened room for a few minutes, running his fingers over the frilled shade contemplatively, thoughts crowding in one after the other, before a distant sound came from down the hall, and the reason for the light being left on slotted neatly into place.

He should have realized it sooner, Mycroft chastised himself as he ambled down the carpeted hallway and to his shadowy bedroom.

Allowances could be made, though, he supposed as he opened the door, considering that this was all still very, very new to him.

It was a pleasant surprise, every time, when he walked into his bedroom and found someone already laying in his bed.

Not a random stranger off the street, of course, who just happened to have a penchant for sleeping on expensive cotton sheets and frequently participating in sexual activities with Mycroft.

_Greg_.

Mycroft stood and stared down at his dead-to-the-world boyfriend and smiled.

No one had ever waited up for him to come home before. Never. And there had never been anyone for him to come home _to_, not since he was an unappreciative teenager and Sherlock just a small child who still thought his big brother was some sort of deity. By the time Mycroft had realized how wonderful such a thing was, Sherlock had grown up and away and Mycroft had missed it.

Now, though, he had Greg who waited up for him, who left a light on when he himself was too exhausted from work to stay up a minute longer, who smiled and laughed with him and who looked forward to the times when Mycroft came home.

Mycroft was still getting used to that.

Shedding his clothes, Mycroft carefully slid into bed, trying his hardest not to wake Greg but secretly (and pathetically, he thought) hoping Greg, even in his comatose state, would somehow _sense_ he was near and wake up.

Greg rarely disappointed Mycroft.

Humming sleepily, Greg rolled over, bumping into Mycroft before flinging an arm across his midriff and pulling him closer.

"You back, Myc?"

Wryly wondering just who _else_ Greg was expecting to crawl into bed with him at half two in the morning, Mycroft whispered back. "Yes. I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, Gregory."

"Ev'rything ok? You find John?"

"Yes, of course."

"Sh'lock?"

"He's fine. He was shaken up but I'm certain it's nothing John cannot fix."

Greg grunted and snuggled closer, wrapping a leg around Mycroft and was snoring against his shoulder in seconds.

Mycroft shifted beneath the warm, heavy weight of Greg until he was comfortable and closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift comfortably off after a very long day.


	3. Silent

The times post-case are always John's favorite.

Not that he doesn't enjoy the times _during_ cases, because he does. Watching Sherlock think and deduce, put all the pieces and riddles of a seemingly unsolvable puzzle together to create a cohesive case no one else could have done is amazing. He astounds everyone- most especially John- time and again and John feels privileged to be able to watch this man work- even if he gets insulted in the process.

Of course, John isn't overly fond of the times _before_ cases. Those times when experiments fail, when the tedium of life is unbroken and only monotony stretches forth. When everything and everyone in the world (not to mention the flat) is apparently insufferably stupid to a certain consulting detective- those are the times John could do with less of. Those times when Sherlock is bored, bored, _**BORED**_!

The times once a case is solved though, with all the loose ends tied neatly up in a bow and Lestrade (or Mycroft) is left with the paperwork and any subsequent cover-ups…those times are particularly nice.

Those times are John's favorite.

There's take-away and cuddles on the sofa. Laughter and good-natured ribbing and kisses just to make the other person be quiet. There's sleep- glorious, fantastic _sleep_- with limbs tangled together beneath cool cotton sheets. There's lazy snogging, loving explorations of bodies already made familiar, and languid sex. Sometimes, when they're still high on adrenaline, there are rough and quick fucks against any available surface, messy kisses, and bruises left in odd places the next morning. Overall though, it's an easy, calm, giddy time, a time for rest and love and self-congratulations.

But then there are those rare times post-case that John doesn't enjoy.

Tonight was one of those nights.

These usually took place after John had had a close call, been injured or abducted, when he'd skirted a bit _too close_ to death for comfort. And while John could count himself lucky, laugh about it over a stiff drink, and move on…his fiancé was incapable of doing so. Had never been capable of doing so.

Sherlock was silent in the ride back to the flat.

Silent as they walked up the stairs, their footsteps feather light, careful not to wake Mrs. Hudson, who was puppy-sitting for them.

The silence remained as Sherlock trailed after John to their bedroom.

Silent as he watched John strip down to his pants and silent as he morosely observed John work at the buttons and zips of Sherlock's own clothes until he was just as naked.

He allowed himself to be maneuvered onto the bed, under the duvet, and John pressed close to him, a line of warm, solidness against his side. John pressed closer until Sherlock turned and buried his face, eyes bleak and haunted, in John's neck and inhaled.

It's these moments John detests, though he'd never, ever tell Sherlock so. To see this silent acceptance of his own fallibility and a bone-deep weariness over that discovery, in a man who is so active and brilliant is heartbreaking. Danger nights, Mycroft calls them, and John knows from experience that nothing he can say or do will bring Sherlock out of it. Sherlock, who is now locked in his mind as he conjures up the horrors of "what if?"- a very human failing that Sherlock, for all his pride and genius, is not immune to.

John wishes Sherlock would rage and yell or say something caustic. He wants him to get angry and berate John for getting caught in the first place, let out his emotions- cry, scream anything but _this_. This- this internal self- berating- they cannot work with and anything John says just drives Sherlock deeper into his mind.

He can only wait, though, and be there with him, let Sherlock know by his body heat, his heartbeat, every breath that fills his lungs- that he's still alive. He lets him know by his proximity that he's not going anywhere, he's not running away, will never run away no matter how rough things get.

Eventually Sherlock lifts his head, pushes his fingers through John's hair, and kisses him, lets John press closer and sighs one word against his lips.

"John."

And John can't help smiling and ruffling Sherlock's hair, lightening the mood and dispelling the darkness, even if it makes Sherlock huff and roll his eyes at John's antics.

"Now, get off me you daft git. I'm starving- I think my stomach's trying to eat its way out. When was the last time you've eaten?"

Smiles shared and a midnight trip to the kitchen like two little boys, sneaking quietly and giggling so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson are on the agenda, and finally dropping all pretenses and shagging against the kitchen counters, shushing each other and laughing.

* * *

**Well, that got angsty, and I apologize there was, yet again, no puppy present. I had a story arc for these three chapters, though, and had to finish it through. Our dear little tubby sir will be here next chapter :)**


	4. Gladstone

"Here he comes!" Mrs. Hudson cheerfully called up the stairs and John grinned over at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes heavenward and ruffled his newspaper in agitation.

Pausing in the making of their breakfast, John strode to the top of the stair and whistled down. "Here, Gladstone! Here, boy!"

Excited panting and whimpering, the click of little toenails on the hardwood, and a frantic _scrabble-scrabble-scrabble_ as the portly puppy attempted to pull itself up the stairs made John grin wider.

It was a daunting task. Gladstone's stubby little legs were not quite long enough to make climbing the stair from Mrs. Hudson's flat to 221B easy but John thought it good for him to make the 17 stair trek on his own.

Sherlock secretly expected the puppy to have a heart attack each time John made him do it.

Winded, Gladstone reached the corner landing of the stair and then barked and wriggled happily at the sight of John standing at the top waiting for him.

"Come on!" John encouraged and the small puppy barked and began heaving himself up the remainder of the way.

Jump…_scrabblescrabblescrabble_…pause-jump…_scrabblescrabblescrabble_….pause, jump….

"Come on, Gladstone! You're nearly there!" John cheered, stooping down and when Gladstone finally leapt up the remaining stair, John scooped him up, cradling the panting ball of fur to his chest and ruffled his ears. "Good boy! Good boy, Gladstone!"

"You're easily pleased, John." Sherlock commented sarcastically from behind his newspaper. "I should withhold that praise, were I you, for when _it_ does something _truly_ praiseworthy, such as using the newspapers and not the carpet."

"That wasn't his fault," John alleged, setting Gladstone on the floor and stepping back into the kitchen where their breakfast was close to burning. It had taken Gladstone a considerable amount of time to master the stairs this morning. "You put something in his water dish."

"I did no such thing." Sherlock replied, because there was honestly no way John could ever find out he had, and hid his face behind his paper.

John snorted but didn't further the argument and Sherlock huffed in irritation and shook his foot to dislodge the puppy, who had plopped down atop it and commenced pawing at his leg for attention.

John whistled, distracting Gladstone from his on-going quest for Sherlock love, and the puppy ran into the kitchen to pluck the bit of bacon from John's outstretched hand. Sherlock tamped down on the feeling of being betrayed and laid aside his newspaper.

"The last thing _it_ needs is more food." He remarked, watching another piece of bacon disappear and Gladstone wriggle encouragingly, hoping for a third. When it became obvious none was forthcoming, Gladstone gave up on the friendly one and trotted back over to the frowny one to commence Operation: Love Me.

Sherlock, frowning, continued to ignore him.

"_It_ has a name-" John began, only for Sherlock to snort, cutting him off.

"If you can call that ridiculous sobriquet a _name_."

John heaved a long-suffering sigh as he slid Sherlock's plate in front of him then sat in front of his own. This was an argument they'd had off and on for the past week, ever since Sherlock had brought the puppy home. For all Sherlock's insistence the dog was _John's_ and that he was in no way affiliated with it nor responsible for taking care of it, Sherlock was exhibiting a strange unwillingness to concede any and all christening rights to John.

"I'm not having him named after some obscure scientist-"

"Pare was a pioneer in discovering how violent deaths influenced internal organs, John!" Sherlock responded indignantly. "And Joseph Bell-"

"Sherlock-"

"Bernard Spilsbury-"

John sighed gustily. He'd heard all these names trotted out for the past few days. He knew which would be next…

Sherlock frowned, doing his best to ignore the sad little eyes gazing up at him from the floor. "Friedrich Miescher _discovered DNA_, John, and you think that dog is too good to bear his name?"

"No, I don't, I just…don't think they make good names for a pet, Sherlock."

"Because _Gladstone_ is a perfect name for that overlarge-"

"_Gladstone_ is a good name. He was prime minister-"

"Since when do you care about-"

"Oof, you two having a domestic?" Mrs. Hudson asked innocently as she walked past the bickering couple and into the kitchen, leaving silence in her wake as the two men stared at each other across the breakfast table, John's lips thinned down and Sherlock's eyes snapping.

"Just disagreeing on Gladstone's name." John smiled at their landlady as she came back into the sitting room with a steaming cuppa in her hands and settled herself in the chair beside Sherlock.

"_Still_? Well, it's a moot point now anyway. He already answers to Gladstone. It'll just confuse him if you change his name now."

"Well, that's all sorted then." John smiled at his furiously pouting fiancé and went back to eating his breakfast.

Sherlock, muttering about hopelessly stupid canines and their equally idiotic owners, buried himself behind his paper again, glancing down briefly, making Gladstone wriggle at the slight attention and whimper for more.

Slowly…carefully…Sherlock checked to make sure that yes, John was absorbed in his breakfast and that Mrs. Hudson was searching through another section of the newspaper for her horoscope.

He nonchalantly slid a piece of bacon from his plate and slipped it beneath the table to Gladstone, rubbing that spot between his little ears he knew he liked, and smiling when Gladstone butted against his hand for more.

Sherlock straightened slightly and reached for his other piece of bacon…before looking straight into the knowing eyes of his landlady.

He froze, but Mrs. Hudson put her finger to her smiling lips and took another sip of her tea before asking John if he wanted his horoscope read aloud, leaving Sherlock to continue to feed his breakfast to the tubby puppy at his feet unrumpled.

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**Everyone wanted more puppy so here we are! Yes, his name will be Gladstone because both John and I wanted it so- though I think many of you will side with Sherlock on this issue and want the puppy named something different :) In my head, Mrs. Hudson takes care of Gladstone when Sherlock and John will be gone for long periods of time.**


	5. Cinnamon

"It's your own fault." John called into the sitting room where he could just see, from his vantage point in the kitchen, Sherlock curled into the fetal position on the sofa, his vivid blue dressing gown pulled tight around his sulky form.

Sherlock didn't answer, instead flopping dramatically into a better position on the sofa.

John shook his head and continued scooping vanilla ice cream into two dishes.

"Yogurt would be better." He commented, though he and Sherlock had already had this argument- if you could call John talking at Sherlock's back and being thoroughly ignored an _argument_. "It'd help heal quicker."

"Mmph!"

"I know you don't like it but it'd still help."

Sherlock uncurled from his tight ball as John strode into the sitting room, proffering a lovely, full bowl of icy, vanilla goodness. Sherlock looked at it longingly.

John handed Sherlock his bowl and watched as the consulting detective spooned the first dollop into his mouth, eyes closing in bliss and moaning just slightly.

"I've never seen someone eat an _entire bag_ of cinnamon candies." John commented in amazement, sitting beside his pained love and tucking into his own bowl of ice cream.

"It wath for a _cathe_, John."

John tried to hide his smile behind his bowl but Sherlock's eloquent glare let him know he'd seen it- and that John could go bugger himself for laughing at his fiancé in his hour of agony.

"Well, you solved it and now you've got a lovely allergic reaction for your efforts." John gave Sherlock a sympathetic look, knowing it was dangerous to indulge Sherlock when he was feeling poorly but really, his mouth and tongue _did_ look painful. He'd never seen someone have such a reaction to eating cinnamon candies. Of course, he'd never known someone to eat an entire bloody bag of them either. "Do you want another paracetemol?"

Sherlock, his mouth full of ice cream, allowing it to numb his swollen, pained tongue, shook his head and slumped to the side, leaning pathetically against John.

"Feeling that bad, love?"

Another nod.

"Want to hack into Mycroft's computer and prank him?"

"Yeth."

* * *

**Sherlock is suffering from _Cinnamon Contact Stomatitis_ which is a rare allergic reaction to artificial cinnamon. It causes sores to develop in the mouth and on the tongue, as well as swelling of the tongue for a few days. Doctorly advice states that steriods can be given to lessen the symptoms, but the best advice is to take otc meds and avoid acidic foods and drinks. Ice cream is suggested to numb the pain, as well as yoghurt, which can actually help speed the healing process.**

**I've learned the hard way that I am allergic to artificial cinnamon. Now I am off to go eat my own bowl of ice cream. Excuse me.**


	6. Watching

**This is porn. Mystrade porn. If you want to skip this chapter, I totally understand. It's tenuously linked to the previous chapter which is why I'm going ahead and posting it instead of waiting.**

**Dedicated to Incendiopuff** **who, ages ago, asked for a chapter in which Greg takes advantage of the cameras in his flat. :) **

**Enjoy!  
**

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Mycroft Holmes is a man who watches.

He watches over his little brother and has done since said little brother was in diapers and toddling around their family estate, getting into more trouble than any normal little boy ever would. He watches over little brother now when said little brother is over thirty and running round London with his fiancé in tow, still getting into trouble and occasionally needing his older brother to help him out.

He watches over his employees, making certain they are loyal and trustworthy and not involved in anything shady or inappropriate.

He watches over those he cares about, those few people who have earned his or his brother's affection and trust. And recently that small category has expanded to include a certain silver-haired Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

Mycroft was, in actual fact, watching over said Detective Inspector for months before he and Greg were ever an item, romantically. His observation _then_ had been of the illicit and forbidden variety, against what was proper and right, overstepping the common bounds of decency, and that had probably been half of what Mycroft loved most about watching over Gregory Lestrade.

He'd watched Greg when the man was angry, sad, tired, elated, in his most unguarded moments when no one should have ever seen him…but Mycroft _had_. And he'd soaked up those raw emotions and relished them in the privacy of his office or the CCTV room at Whitehall and then relived them over and over again in his own mind at his leisure.

Greg Lestrade knows Mycroft watches now.

Mycroft had come clean about his forbidden endeavors so yes, Greg knows, which takes some of the illicit edge off the high of watching him. But this _knowing_ also means Greg _lets_ Mycroft watch him. He even encourages him to do so…and he contributes to Mycroft's little kink _expressly_ to please Mycroft.

Which is why, when Mycroft gets a text from his detective-y love at 3 in the afternoon on a day he knows Greg had off, he feels his blood start running hotly and making its way south. In a hurry.

_I'm in our bedroom. Wanna see? ;) - GL_

He can't at the moment, more's the pity. When he receives the text, he's sitting in front of the Prime Minister, talking seriously about a problem in a certain African country that requires his full attention, which he gives, as he does all problems relating to the country he loves and is in charge of.

But when he gets a free moment, when the Prime Minister has been instructed as to what he should say and how he should act, Mycroft calls up the video feed to his flat….and suddenly can't breathe properly.

_Oh, Gregory._

Greg's completely naked, sprawled wantonly on their bed, legs spread obscenely far apart, giving Mycroft a perfect view as he slowly, leisurely, strokes his hard cock.

Mycroft may or may not whimper at the sight. (He does).

A few taps of his keyboard and Mycroft is zoomed in, the figure on the bed filling his screen and he can see Greg's chest heave as he continues stroking himself, the muscles in his stomach jumping at the sensation.

He knows no one is in his office except himself, but Mycroft can't stop his eyes from quickly assessing, making for _certain_ no one can see…before leaning back in his chair, biting his lip, and watching his mischievous boyfriend.

He doesn't need to text Greg to let him know he's watching.

Greg knows…and he puts on a goddamned _show_.

Greg arches into his own hand, moaning, humping up, his hips moving provocatively and his own cock sliding slickly between his fingers, over and over, rhythm increasing-

He suddenly breaks off, cursing, fumbling beside him for the bottle of lube Mycroft knew would be there but even anticipating it and knowing how Greg would use it doesn't stop the bolt of pure arousal from shooting to his cock. If he were less dignified he'd already be palming himself, right there in his office at Whitehall.

He doesn't, of course- Mycroft Holmes has more propriety than that- but oh, he wants to as he watches Greg pour the viscous liquid over his fingers and then sink his long index finger inside his own arse, hissing and moaning like a whore, his cock jumping against his stomach as he does so.

Mycroft's mind can aptly provide him a sensory memory of doing that very thing to Greg himself, kneeling between those spread thighs, feeling how tight his lover is at that first intrusion, stretching him out-

He snaps away from that train of thought when Greg groans, the sound stuttering from his throat as he inserts another finger and then begins…then…well, begins fucking himself.

_Vigorously_.

This time, there is no "maybe." Mycroft _does_ whimper and his dignity goes flying out the window as he reaches down and rubs his cock through his trousers, unable to help himself, his entire focus on that hand pumping steadily between Greg's legs with deliciously slick sounds.

Greg is moaning, his other hand coming up to stroke his cock, movements becoming more frantic with every passing minute, and-

And Mycroft watches, mouth slightly open, as spurt after spurt of come strips Greg's stomach and he has to yank his hand away from his own cock before he comes in his trousers like a teenager from watching his boyfriend get off.

It's embarrassing.

It's one of the hottest things Mycroft has ever seen.

And it's all capped off in filthy debauchery by Greg, covered in his own come, opening his eyes and staring straight at where he knows the hidden camera is…and grinning wickedly.

* * *

Halfway across London, John Watson slams the lid shut on Sherlock's laptop and he and Sherlock exchange horrified looks.

"We are _never_ hacking Mycroft's computer again." He resolves, and for once, his consulting detective doesn't disagree.


	7. The Only Way

"You look _gorgeous_, John." Sherlock wheedled through their locked bedroom door. Pressing his ear against the wood, he could hear John moving around, the suggestive rasp and creak of leather, and sternly told himself now wasn't the time to become aroused.

"Fuck off." Came the stroppy reply from behind door. "I'm not going out dressed like this."

Sherlock grimaced. "We don't have time for this, John. You'd already decided to go undercover otherwise you'd wouldn't have put on the outfit. So _come on_."

"I wasn't…that's not…I…I didn't think it was for a case."

Oh. _Oh_. Sherlock blinked. That was…surprising. Nicely so. "You thought I laid you out leather trousers to-"

"Yeah_, I did,_ ok?" Sherlock heard John sign in irritation and could picture his diminutive love, an angry look on his face, running his hand through his hair…while the leather trousers clung tightly to his arse and groin-

No, Sherlock firmly reminded himself. Now. Was. Not. The. Time. For. Arousal.

He had to clear his throat twice before calling out again. "John. Please. I _need_ you for this case."

"And this is the only way?"

Sherlock bit his lip. The only way? No. The best way? "Yes."

A resigned sigh from their bedroom let him know he'd won and Sherlock stepped back as John pulled the door open.

His lips curved in a wicked smile at the sight of John, pale chest crisscrossed in black fishnet, legs gloriously encased in skin-tight leather.

John, aware of Sherlock' perusal, still glowered darkly. "This case had better be brief." He threatened, pushing past Sherlock to pull on the leather boots laid out near the sofa which completed his persona.

Sherlock, turning to appreciate the stunning view that was _John going_, heartily agreed.


	8. The Only Way, Part 2

**This is 1500+ words of Johnlock porn. Not your cup of tea? I'll see you next update! :D**

**This is also a birthday present for the darling Morgana-le-Fai, whose support of my stories has always bolstered me. She asked for a continuation of the last chapter with "some nice Johnlock porn" and I hope I delivered on that :) Happy Birthday!**

* * *

"I'm not doing it in a _fucking_ alley, Sherlock."

Sherlock allowed John to shove him away and fell back, panting in need and frustration, eyeing his indignant but aroused fiancé in consternation.

It had been _four hours_ since they'd left the flat.

_Four hours_ of agony, of watching John walk in his leather trousers, swaggering his stride to look convincingly like a streetwalker, leaning into car windows (displaying his arse to good advantage where Sherlock was hidden) and doing a fair job of smiling and flirting with the occupants before sending them on their way, waiting on their man to show up.

These performances of John's had been followed up with angry, filthy looks being sent at the spot where he knew Sherlock was hiding and those looks had _not_ helped matters for Sherlock.

At all.

And it had been _four hours_.

They'd caught the serial killer (he'd been decidedly predictable and not worth the effort.) If the case hadn't involved John in the leather trousers Sherlock would have dismissed the entire evening as wasted and been thoroughly put out.

As it was…

John shifted against the brick, wincing in discomfort when the netting of his "shirt" caught on the rough grains and pulled and tugged. "Take me back to the flat and I'll let you." He promised.

Sherlock quickly did the calculations in his head. The flat was a good 30 minutes away by cab, pushed to 45 or 50 with the Friday night traffic congestion and John was already flagging. The adrenaline of the case was wearing off and the doctor had been up for almost 14 hours. He'd want to rest when they finally got back to the flat, maybe after having a quick bite to eat. Sherlock knew from previous experience that John wouldn't deny him sex, he'd go along with anything Sherlock would want to please him and enjoy it, but his heart wouldn't _really_ be in it.

And the leather trousers deserved true enjoyment and gusto or it would be a wasted opportunity.

Sherlock bit his lip. "John…"

There was a heavy sigh. "_No_. There is nothing you can _possibly_ say that'll convince me to let you bugger me in a dirty alley way- Christ, Sherlock, there's a _dead rat_ not six feet from us!"

"Then we have privacy, yes?"

John stared at Sherlock, jaw clenched.

Sherlock stared back, 8 different arguments working themselves out in his head. Eleven arguments if he decided to be a dick about it.

He didn't have to be a dick about it, though, because in that second, John capitulated.

Because John…well, John could sort of see the appeal. In letting Sherlock do that to him. In this location.

While he was wearing the leather trousers.

John was uncomfortable by it, yes. Appalled, most definitely. Embarrassed, of course…and yet very, _very_ much turned on by the idea.

He cleared his throat and looked away down the alley, peering into the darkness. The glowing streetlamps were unable to penetrate the blackness but it _did_ appear they were alone. They were also far enough down the way that they themselves were ensconced in the shadows and, so long as they stayed quiet, no one would know where they were or what they were doing.

"All right." John said, softly, swallowing thickly.

"What?" Sherlock was derailed, having been silently working on a stunningly convincing argument and now John was just…giving in?

"I said all right. I'll let you."

"_Let _me?" The disdain at that wording was hot enough to scald.

John fidgeted against the wall, still uncomfortable but seeing the appeal of this crazy idea with each passing second. "I want you to."

That was nice. More than nice, that was fantastic…only now that John was agreeing, Sherlock wasn't so sure. Doubt and guilt were beginning to creep in. "John…it's fine- really- if you don't want to-"

"Oh, for the love of-" John sighed and grabbed Sherlock's hand, pressing it against the front of his trousers encouragingly. He was only half-hard, so it wasn't a very impressive display, but it conveyed his point handily enough to a suddenly reluctant consulting detective. "_Yes_, Sherlock, I want you to-"

Assiduous application of lips and tongue prevented John from finishing that sentence and he found himself shoved against the rough bricks, hissing when his skin scraped against the rough grains, the fishnet shirt doing nothing to protect him. He slid his hands across Sherlock's hips, gripped two handfuls of his arse and pulled him closer, grinding them together. It was gratifying to feel that Sherlock was already hard and John couldn't help but chuckle.

"Bit keen, are you?" He asked, frotting against that superb erection and Sherlock moaned, ducking his head to press kisses against John's throat, sucking and biting until there was a mark high on his neck, listening to John's breath catch beautifully, encouragingly.

"If we get caught…they'll never believe I'm not a rent boy." John panted as Sherlock fumbled between them at the button and zip of John's trousers, tugging the soft leather to the tops of John's thighs. He'd been unable to wear pants beneath them and Sherlock palmed John's cock as a reward.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. We're not going to get caught." Sherlock replied, stroking, and John bucked into his hand.

The next few minutes were a flurry of movement, heated kisses and breathy moans, alternating thrusts and curses as the two tried to do different things at the same time in their passionate rush to _get on with it._

John accidentally tore a few of the buttons from Sherlock's shirt as he hastily yanked it from its tuck.

Sherlock somehow elbowed John rather painfully in the jaw when he tried to take his gloves off with his teeth.

But finally, Sherlock's zip and button were undone and he pressed against John with a heartfelt moan that, if none of the previous actions hadn't already done, would have made John rock hard in an instant.

John thought it would all end right there, their hands wrapped around each other's cocks, in a pair of damn fine orgasms….but Sherlock, of course, had other plans.

Which was how John found himself steadying his body, his hands splayed out on the bricks, arse pushed coquettishly out, _still_ with the leather trousers round his thighs, and Sherlock behind him opening a lube sachet with trembling fingers.

"You planned this?" John questioned suspiciously as that first long finger slid inside, reason making a comeback at the mortifying thought that Sherlock believed he was that easy. A spur of the moment thing like this was very different from a pre-planned rendezvous…

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock whispered, adding a second, well-lubed finger and John hissed at the intrusion and dropped the subject, arching back against the delightful invasion.

As soon as John was adjusted, and as soon as Sherlock had slicked himself up and made one…two…three botched attempts at entry, he was forced to re-evaluate their position.

The situation wasn't helped along by John silently laughing at him.

John abruptly _stopped_ laughing when Sherlock kicked John's feet apart, pulled his hips further back, throwing him slightly off balance, lined his cock up, and sank in with a steady thrust.

The sound John made _then_ was decidedly _not_ laughter.

"_Ooohhh, Jeesssus."_

This was entirely different from the other times they'd had sex.

This was a quick and dirty _fuck_.

John could feel the grit of the alley beneath his feet, the rough bricks scratching his palms, inhale the rancid smell of filth and refuse permeating the alleyway- but also the sweet smell of Sherlock's soap, his sweat, the whiff of cigarette smoke, and oh, John would be getting angry about that later- _much_ later, because his senses were further accosted, distracted, overwhelmed, by _Sherlock_.

The scratch of his coat against John's thighs, the sweaty press of their bodies together as they frantically rutted, the deep moans and slap of flesh on flesh-

Then there was Sherlock's hand reaching around, wrapping around John's cock, expertly bringing him off-

Sherlock sank his teeth into the back of John's neck, provoking a thready groan and frantic, needy pumps of John's hips as he fucked into Sherlock's fist around his cock.

"Harder-" He choked and Sherlock dug his fingers into John's hip and obliged, moaning wordlessly.

John gasped sharply, spine arching dramatically as he climaxed, vaguely surprised it had happened as quickly as it did. Sherlock seemed to have been waiting on John, abruptly coming as well, his grip on John's hip tightening, his disjointed groans sounding pained.

"Oi, get off." John groused affectionately when Sherlock made to weakly slump against his back and he had to shake the deadweight of the consulting detective off, hissing in displeasure when Sherlock's cock slipped free of his arse in a spill of lube and come.

John was unsurprised to discover that Sherlock hadn't thought far enough ahead to grab something to clean them up with after, and he winced as he pulled his trousers back up, his arse and front disgustingly sticky.

They walked on shaky legs back to the main road, Sherlock's coat draped over John to hide his streetwalker costume so he wouldn't be embarrassed, and so the cabs wouldn't pass them by.

"Can't believe we just did that." John murmured tiredly once they'd settled in the back of a cab. He slumped against Sherlock, head propped on the taller man's shoulder, and yawned widely.

"Can you really not, John?" Sherlock rejoined sarcastically, receiving a sharp jab in the ribs from his exhausted love.

"Mm. Maybe I can." John whispered sleepily, a few minutes later, and the next time Sherlock checked, he had gone to sleep.


	9. Pre-Planning Wedding Planning

**Just in case everyone's forgotten that John and Sherlock are still engaged in this series :)**

* * *

Sherlock's aggrieved sigh grated on John's already frayed nerves and he clenched his jaw to keep from shouting at his exasperating fiancé.

"It's usually customary when a couple get engaged that they actually eventually _get married_." John explained in a forced calm voice through clenched teeth. It was the fifth time he'd started this conversation with Sherlock in the past month _alone_ and it looked like this time would go the way the other four had: nowhere.

And he didn't want to nag (it made him feel petty and mean), but it'd almost been four months since he and Sherlock got engaged and they had yet to decide anything. Anytime John brought it up, Sherlock either changed the subject or outright ignored him.

John was ready to pull his hair out.

"Weddings." Sherlock opined lazily from his sprawl on the sofa, "are tedious. There's bad food, guests you hate. Long ceremony. Speeches no one cares about…" He sighed again, letting John know this entire conversation was something he didn't care about.

John pursed his lips and mentally counted down from ten before speaking. "I'm talking about _our_ wedding, Sherlock."

"I'm aware."

"So that'd be tedious, too?"

"Most. Likely."

This time it was John's turn to sigh, which he did with gusto, earning himself a confused frown.

"Why do you keep bringing this up?" Sherlock asked irritably, jackknifing into a sitting position in a flurry of blue fabric and curls. "I've already said _yes_ to your proposal! Why do you continue to insist on discussing…_oh_."

"Forget it." John snapped, really not in the mood to be deduced but his attempt to bury himself behind his newspaper was botched as Sherlock snatched said paper out of his hand, flung it away, and knelt, insinuating himself between John's legs.

"It's important to you."

As Sherlock's deductions went, this one was less than astounding. John snorted, rolling his eyes. "Brilliant deduction, that."

The consulting detective gave John a serious, tight-lipped look. "You have to understand, John. This…this wedding _thing_- it isn't important to me. I've already committed myself to you for the rest of our lives, and I don't need a meaningless piece of paper from the government to prove that." Sherlock shifted closer to John on his knees, gazing earnestly up into his eyes. "It's important to you, though- all the attached connotations, the sentiment, the legal reasons."

"Put like that makes me sound shallow." John said gruffly, fiddling uneasily with the edge of his jumper. Sherlock plucked John's twitching hand up, cradling it between his own.

"It's what society has taught you to expect when you're in love and how you believe you achieve your happily ever after. It's a bit shallow, yes, but shallow or not...I want to give you what you want, John."

John smiled and tugged on Sherlock's curls. "What if that means suffering through a boring, tedious wedding ceremony?"

Sherlock made a face. "If it were _our_ wedding maybe it wouldn't be that horrible."

"We don't have to do that, you know." John explained. "It doesn't have to be an elaborate wedding, lots of guests, and all that. We could just go down to the register office one day, in and out, really quick."

"Fine." Sherlock agreed, mirroring John's smile. "Which of us will be the bride?"


	10. A Day In The Life

Greg sharply spun the wheel of his car, tires squealing warningly as he abruptly turned onto the main road. His stomach dropped as the car briefly went up on two wheels, wobbling, careening, almost out of control- before _crashing_ back down onto four wheels with bone-rattling force.

"FuckingJesusGoddamnedsonofabitch!" He gasped through grit teeth, easing up the barest minimum on the gas pedal, determined _never_ to do that again. It looked much cooler in the movies but the reality was fucking terrifying. Greg felt like pissing his pants.

A bead of sweat trickled down his face but Greg couldn't take his hands from their death grip on the wheel. He was even afraid to swipe his clammy face against his shoulder for fear he'd lose control of the car and kill both himself and John.

Beside him, sat in the passenger seat, John Watson kept up his own steady stream of expletives from behind clenched teeth.

"Buggery fucking shit." He hissed, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists in his lap. "Arse-headed moron. Crazy, stupid bloody git. Genius, cock-sucking, idiotic bitch."

He seemed remarkably unconcerned that Greg had almost flipped their car. Instead, all his focus was on the double-decker bus ahead of them, the bus Sherlock had climbed aboard half an hour ago and was currently fighting a desperate murderer-turned-hijacker for control of. The bus sped down streets and swerved through traffic at breakneck speed, Greg and John in hot pursuit, not helped by the fight between driver and consulting detective. There'd already been half a dozen near-accidents and it was sheer _luck_ no one had yet been injured.

Greg wanted to keep it that way, prayed they could keep it that way.

There was a roadblock up ahead to hopefully stop the bus if Sherlock didn't manage it before then, but Greg had his doubts of it working.

"What the hell was he thinking, what the hell, what the hell…" Greg muttered under his breath, heart pounding, wondering if Mycroft was watching their mad dash across London and what he was currently doing about it.

"Knobheaded josser. Manky fucking cock. Tart-"

John broke off his irate, special brand of telling off of his fiancé when the bus suddenly swerved dramatically-

Right-

Left-

_Tiiiilted_…

John sucked in a sharp, horrified breath. "Oh, _Jesus_ _no_-"

And then _crashed_ onto its side, glass exploding in every direction and sparks flying as the metal hull of the bus skidded along the pavement. Cars swerved to avoid the unexpected wreckage, brakes shrieking, horns blaring, and Greg, cursing, slammed on his own brakes, threw the car in park, and flung open his door, sprinting toward the crash with his heart in his throat.

John was already ahead of him.

Sirens wailing in the background, Greg crunched his way through the glass to the front of the bus where, miraculously, Sherlock was already crawling out of the wreckage, his gloves protecting his hands from the broken glass littering the busy intersection. John, his face ashen and closed down, helped him to his feet, running his hands all over Sherlock's body as the consulting detective, annoyed, tried to push him away.

"Are you all right?" John demanded, refusing to be put off his inspection, probing Sherlock's head and peering into his eyes to check for dilation.

"Yes, of course. John. _John!_" Sherlock finally succeeded in brushing his hands away and turned to Greg. "Mills is fine- unconscious but fine." He gestured to the wreckage and Greg heaved himself inside to check on their murderer.

It was a few minutes later, as Greg was helping in the removal of the unconscious suspect from the overturned bus, that he happened to glimpse Sherlock and John, who were standing off to the side, John doggedly continuing his examination of Sherlock.

He never knew precisely what Sherlock said to John- they were too far away to hear over the wail of sirens- but whatever it was made John clench his jaw, eyes go wide and fierce, and push Sherlock, making the taller man stumble back against the side of the bus, forcing a pained gasp from him.

Sherlock, white faced in anger, pushed John in retaliation.

John pushed him again- and the next Greg knew, Sherlock had John bent double in a headlock.

"Oi!" He jumped down from the bus, running to free John-

Only for John to wrap an arm round Sherlock's knees and sweep them out from under him, bringing the tall genius crashing to the pavement and breaking his hold on John's neck.

John, stood over him, chest heaving in anger. "Are you _really_ that bloody stu-"

A hard knock with long legs brought John crashing down atop Sherlock and Greg watched, stunned, as the two grown men, one of whom was almost forty and the other was a certifiable genius, had an impromptu wrestling match right there in the middle of a busy intersection. Half the officers at the scene paused to watch, more than one CCTV camera trained on them, a few cameras from the crowd gathered at the perimeters started clicking, and still the two men rolled about on the pavement, fists clenched in coats and clothes, snarling at each other and shouting.

"_Are you fucking stupid_?" John yelled, shaking Sherlock above him and twisting his body to fling Sherlock off him and away. Sherlock clung tenaciously to John's jacket and instead the two men rolled, their legs tangling together.

"I had the situation under control, John!" Sherlock shouted back, face red from exertion and anger.

"Bull-fucking-shit, Sherlock- you…fucking…_prick_-" John panted, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs and receiving a vicious kick to his thigh.

Before they started throwing punches, hurting each other, and doing things they'd later regret, Greg and another officer hurried to separate the two, Sherlock childishly kicking out at John as they parted.

John was furious, face dark and angry, jaw clenched so tight it looked as if he'd never get it undone.

Sherlock, panting, his sparkling eyes trailing over John's frame, looked more aroused than anything.

Greg really didn't want to think about that. He had officially. Had. It.

"Cuff'em and-"

"_What_? Greg-"

"Are you serious?!"

"-put'em in the back of my car. And _yes_! I bloody well've had it with you two today." Greg growled, his voice slowly creeping up to shouting, his face going red. "I'm not even going to get into it. End of discussion. Get in the back of my car."

Both men glared at him, now united against a common enemy.

"_Now_!"


	11. The Silent Treatment

"John."

The silence in the back of Lestrade's car was oppressive and thick. A ringing, breathless hush that almost hurt Sherlock's ears.

"John."

The anger emanating from John's side of the backseat was almost palpable. Sherlock could feel it beating along his skin in a scalding wave of disapproval and rage.

"John."

"Don't talk to me, Sherlock." John said, his face turned to the window. Sherlock knew John was turned away from him just to be petulant. There was nothing out the window for him to see except monotonous brick, Lestrade having pulled his car containing them into an alleyway in an effort to keep the photographers at bay. The headlines of the papers would be bad enough following Sherlock's mad dash across London with the bus then crashing it- add that he and his blogger had been arrested for brawling following the incident and Sherlock supposed even Mycroft wouldn't be able to stop a swift demotion for Lestrade.

"Jo-"

"Don't. Talk. To. Me, Sherlock."

Sherlock had no problem ignoring John's directive, however he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to say. He didn't want to make the situation worse and it seemed he was usually wrong about what to say when John was angry.

So instead of talking, he drew in a deep breath and set to work unlocking his handcuffs. It had been absurd and presumptuous of Lestrade to cuff them in the first place, Sherlock thought with a smug smile.

It was the work of half a minute before the lock clicked open and Sherlock swung his hands in front of him, struggling with the remaining cuff that dangled from his wrist.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock glanced up, saw that John still hadn't turned around, and went back to his handcuffs. "I thought you weren't speaking to me."

"I'm not. Just want to make sure you're not doing anything to get us in more trouble than we're already in."

"Relax. Lestrade won't be angry for long. You don't actually believe he'll take us to jail?" Sherlock asked disbelievingly.

"You just crashed a bus, Sherlock." Unable to stop himself, John turned around, eyes blazing, jaw clenched. "You just stole a fucking _bus_ and crashed it in the middle of a busy intersection. People could have got hurt- lots of people. Did you even think about that _at any point_ in all this?"

"Of course I did. That's why I boarded the bus in the first place. The man was deranged and had to be stopped. There's no telling how many lives he would have taken if I hadn't done what I did."

John laughed, a short, derisive chuckle Sherlock hated- he always knew John was making fun of him when he laughed like that. He decided that he was angry, just as much as John was.

"Well. Job well done. Care to do mine?" John jiggled his cuffed hands, twisting his arms and offering his wrists to Sherlock.

It turned out Sherlock did care. Employing John's go-to technique when being peevish, Sherlock turned his back to his fiancé and faced the window.

He was immediately bored. Staunch perseverance was obviously called for in order to make his point.

John stared in disbelief at Sherlock's expensively tailored back. "Sher-?" He cut himself off, clenching his jaw and facing his own window. Fine. If Sherlock wanted to be a dick and not un-cuff him, that was fine. More than fine. He wasn't going to sit there and beg Sherlock to do it.

John shifted, determinedly not wincing when the metal pinched his wrists.

The minutes ticked by, each as silent and anger-filled as the last.

Neither man was willing to relent first, speak first, and bring their childish 'I'm giving you the silent treatment' argument to an end.

Sherlock, still facing the brick wall, was almost in tears he was so bored.

John's shoulder was beginning to hurt.

Sherlock risked a sidelong glance at John, noting his stiff posture, his soldierly resolve to suffer through any discomfort.

Sherlock debated, bit his lip, rolled his eyes, and capitulated.

"Give me your wrists."

"What?"

"Give me your wrists."

Wordlessly, John turned, presenting Sherlock with his wrists and Sherlock, on the verge of inserting his lock pick and getting to work…paused.

And swallowed heavily at the sight of John's strong wrists gloriously, provocatively encircled in unrelenting metal. He traced the slightly reddened skin of one wrist with his fingertip, marveling at the images that immediately sprung to mind-

"Sherlock?"

He encircled John's wrists with his own hands, tugging them apart as far as the cuffs would allow, testing the strength.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

Sherlock yanked John's hands apart, the metal links clinking, and John hissed as the metal bit into his flesh-

Sherlock was suddenly releasing his wrists, hands insistent at his shoulders, forcing John to awkwardly turn around, sort of flopping around and back into his seat. He stiffened in surprise when Sherlock assaulted his lips with his own, stealing his breath, tongue already probing past his closed lips and sweeping proprietarily into his mouth.

John tried to jerk away. He was still fucking angry and wasn't going to be distracted from what had been shaping up to be a magnificent, completely justifiable sulk. He rarely got those without Sherlock stealing them from him and he'd been ready to enjoy it.

It was impossible to get away, though. He was trapped against his seat as Sherlock deepened their kiss, his tongue stroking along John's and eliciting unwilling shivers.

John heaved his body up, trying to buck Sherlock off, and jerked futilely at the handcuffs-

And his breath caught in his throat at the unexpected rush of arousal. He moaned into Sherlock's mouth, tugging again at the cuffs just to feel the unyielding strength, his anger melting away, abruptly completely on-board with whatever it was Sherlock was up to.

It took minor acrobatic skills and the use of a considerable amount of muscle but finally John was sat astride Sherlock's lap, hands still cuffed behind his back, snogging the consulting detective for all he was worth. Sherlock was fumbling between them at various buttons and flies, pinching and rubbing John's nipples, all the while never losing focus from fucking into John's mouth with his tongue in an entirely filthy manner.

When he felt Sherlock slip an insistent hand down the back of his trousers, though, John stiffened and reluctantly pulled away.

"You don't have-"

"I do."

"No. There's no fucking way you managed to bring…" John trailed off when Sherlock, making use of his unfettered state, produced the desired objects _there was no way_ he could have brought.

Except he had.

And so they did.

* * *

Half an hour later, when Greg came back to his car, fully intent on releasing the two men and letting them off with a stern warning, it was to find them both naked, John still handcuffed, and in the process of defiling his backseat in a most…vigorous way.

He felt, and would later maintain, that the two had earned their night in jail.


	12. A Surprise At Lunch

"Um…that's, well, that's. Wow. Are you…are you sure?"

Mycroft stared across the table at a speechless Greg Lestrade and smiled. "Very sure, Gregory. Otherwise I wouldn't have asked."

That sassy rejoinder earned him a glare as Greg fidgeted in his chair, folded and refolded his menu, ran a hand across his forehead. Cleared his throat. Tugged at his shirt collar.

"Well, fuck- I just-" Greg cleared his throat again. There was more fidgeting. "I wasn't expectin' this."

"You already have a key." Mycroft pointed out pragmatically.

"Yeah, I know that but. It's different. Having a key's one thing. Moving in is…" Greg gestured helplessly and Mycroft, who hadn't suffered a second thought when he'd asked Greg to move in with him, became aware something was wrong. The way he'd expected this encounter to go was falling apart.

It was easy enough to read the answer to his question in the rigid, uncomfortable lines of Greg's body. His downcast, meditative eyes. The furrows of his brow. The tense slash of his lips.

"You don't want to." Mycroft stated, a hollow pit forming in his stomach.

"You surprised me." Greg responded, sidestepping Mycroft's accusation, which was as good as a confirmation in Mycroft's mind.

He didn't want to.

The rejection hurt more than Mycroft had been expecting.

"Clearly."

Greg shot Mycroft a quick look but the other man had already picked up his menu and seemed intent on perusing the contents therein. His hands didn't shake and, to the outside world, he looked entirely calm and unruffled.

"Are you gentlemen ready to order?"

Greg frowned at the waiter who stood, pen poised and expectant. "We-"

"Yes, _I'm_ ready." Mycroft said sharply, not looking up from his menu. "_Gregory_?"

Cool, detached eyes met Greg's across the table and he sighed. He knew that look. He'd just blown it. The whole goddamn thing.

"I need another minute." He admitted lowly and the waiter, sensing one of his best-paying clients was in the midst of a lovers' spat, bowed himself away.

"Very well, sirs."


	13. Frozen Out

**I'm so sorry for the late update! I know I promised a Sunday update to this story but then a plot bunny hopped into my head. It was cute so I had to keep it :)**

* * *

Greg was being frozen out by The Ice Man.

Unsurprisingly, it was proving very effective.

Mycroft Holmes was a professional at nonverbal warfare. Not only had he learned from observing his parents and their never-ending, silent sparring, he was also an older brother. He and Sherlock had _perfected_ the art of arguing without words.

So when Mycroft Holmes set his mind to freezing his boyfriend out, he pulled out all the stops.

He refused to speak, avoided eye contact, and communicated with Greg solely through huffs, snorts, smirks, and _that smile_ that Greg _loathed_. It was a particularly snarky, smarmy smile that wasn't an actual smile at all and managed to convey disgusting amounts of superciliousness.

That was how he communicated with Greg…when Greg actually_ saw him._

Because since that disastrous lunch more than a week ago, it seemed the entire world had gone to hell in a hand basket. Mycroft, who had always meticulously scheduled himself time with Greg, was suddenly working late, working weekends, working through lunch, working, working, working, fucking _working_.

Mycroft was too busy to answer Greg's calls, too busy to call him back, and only a series of terse text messages let Greg know Mycroft was even still alive.

Greg sighed and flung himself away from his desk, reclining in his office chair and pinching the bridge of his nose where he could feel a headache starting. This was all completely ridiculous, how Mycroft was acting. They were two men over forty for fucks sake. And this was all because Greg wouldn't move in with him.

And it wasn't like he'd even bloody said he _wouldn't_, Greg thought indignantly, slouching down and closing his eyes against the glare of the overheads. He hadn't been given a chance to say _anything_ before Mycroft was getting the wrong idea and beginning an epic pout worthy of his little brother.

There was at least one good thing in all this: he'd gained a new level of respect for John Watson. That man needed to write a book: "How To Handle A Holmes." Or maybe "The Holmes Whisperer." Had a snappy title. He'd mention it to John next time he saw him.

It still didn't help Greg in this situation, though. He slumped, defeated.

If this had been his ex-wife, he would've sent flowers but he didn't think Mycroft was the type to appreciate the gesture.

Not to mention Greg would've felt stupid sending them to a bloke, no matter that said bloke buggered him on a frequent basis.

If he could just talk to Mycroft and explain the situation…but _no_. Mycroft was too busy being childish.

Greg debated with himself, struggling with his own righteous indignation and the desire to actually see his boyfriend, before plucking up his mobile and firing off a quick text.

_Dinner tonight? GL_

He waited for Mycroft's response, chest clenched in expectation of the inevitable rejection.

He waited.

And waited.

Finally, his mobile pinged.

_I'm very busy at the moment, Gregory. Perhaps another time. MH_

Greg grit his teeth, his anger with the situation suddenly overwhelming. His fingers were shaking in fury as he typed out a new message.

_I know you're not actually busy, you posh sod-_

No. Delete, delete, delete, delete. Start again.

_If you'd quit pouting like a child we could work this out-_

Fuck. Delete, try again.

_When I said you'd surprised me the other day I actually meant it. I was really surprised. That wasn't what I expected. GL_

Greg's finger hovered over the send button, hating the groveling tone of the text and wondering if it would make things better or worse. They couldn't get any worse, though, could they? He hit send.

This time, the agony of waiting was lengthened to a full 15 minutes. By that time, Greg had regretted sending his text three times over, had wished he'd sent one of the more inflammatory ones, and had already started composing a few in his head that'd let Mycroft know exactly what he thought of him and his attitude.

_Thank you for reiterating that, Gregory. MH_

Mycroft's sarcasm translated well over text message and Greg saw red. He was up and out of his chair in less than a second, dragging on his coat with brusque, angry movements. He'd had enough of this shit. He was going to see Mycroft and have this out with his sulking, grouchy boyfriend if it was the last thing he did that day.

* * *

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Holmes is busy at the moment. If you'd like, I can schedule you an appointment-"

"I don't need a ruddy appointment." Greg all but growled at the friendly-looking receptionist outside Mycroft's office. She (her nametag read "Martha") must have been new- that or not well-used to dealing with deranged Detective Inspectors- because she blanched and threw a quick glance at the closed office door.

"I-I'm sorry but I was told not to let anyone in. He's- he's in a meeting right now," Martha bit her lip as Greg's glower darkened. "But-but m-maybe if you come back later he'll be available." Her attempt at a bright, encouraging smile fell flat.

Greg saw through the ploy in an instant. Mycroft had either known in advance he was coming, or had instructed his receptionist not to let Greg in shortly after he began his pout. Mycroft wasn't in a meeting and he wasn't busy (well, no more than normal). He was just stepping up his game of "not seeing Greg and driving him up the wall" to a whole new level.

"Right. Thank you." Greg said perfunctorily before side-stepping the desk and confidently striding to the closed oak door.

"Sir! No, sir, you can't go in there!"

Greg ignored her and turned the door handle.

"All right you arrogant git, we're going to have this out right now or-" Greg broke off abruptly, stopping short in the doorway. Not expecting his sudden halt, Martha ran into him from behind.

The two Asian men seated in front of Mycroft's desk turned at the intrusion with raised eyebrows, eyeing Greg with blatant curiosity. Behind them, seated at the massive desk, Mycroft pinched his lips together in annoyance.

Greg flushed in embarrassment_. Oh, shit_. Martha hadn't been lying about the meeting.

"Sir, I'm so sorry- I tried to stop him!" Martha piped up, not helping the situation at all.

"As I can see. We'll discuss this later, Ms. Fitz." Mycroft replied firmly and Greg felt a rush of sympathy for Martha, realizing he'd just got her fired. If Mycroft gave him time to explain later- and he hoped he wouldn't break up with him straight out over this- Greg resolved to argue in defense of Martha's position. It wasn't her fault.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft inclined his head to him, the very picture of politesse, but Greg knew the calmer Mycroft got, the angrier he was. And he was currently furious. "I apologize. It seems we've mixed up the appointments today. Please, let my receptionist bring you coffee while you wait in the lounge and I'll be with you in due time."

_Oh, that sounded threatening, as only Mycroft could make it_. Greg nodded dumbly, not knowing what to say, and made an awkward sort of bow/head nod to the two Asians still seated. One of them looked on the verge of laughing at him. The other just looked pissed.

Greg followed a trembling Martha from the room, hearing Mycroft say something in Japanese to the men, sounding very smooth, very apologetic, before the door closed behind him.


	14. The Big Melt

"You should be relieved to hear that I managed to smooth things over with the Chinese ambassadors after your…_outburst_ and everything is still on for…well…" Mycroft smirked at Greg as he seated himself behind his desk, gesturing courteously for Greg to sit opposite him. "Never mind. Classified, you know."

Greg mutely nodded, feeling like an unruly student in the Headmaster's office, and watched as Mycroft began sorting through the papers spread over his desk.

"I hardly think this needs being said," Mycroft continued in a deceptively light voice, "but just in case: you should never simply storm into my office unannounced again. I thought you were aware of the delicate nature of my job-"

"I did." Greg interrupted, and Mycroft's eyebrows sailed upward at his…his impudence, Greg supposed, in not taking his tongue lashing lying down and meekly nodding along with whatever Mycroft said. He'd had to wait almost an hour before Mycroft's legitimate meeting had ended, and he'd calmed down in that time. That didn't mean he was just going to take this meekly. "I did know but…well, we needed to talk-"

"I told you I had a meeting-"

Greg snorted and Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You're like the bloody boy who cried wolf." Greg grumbled defensively. "Always saying you're in meetings and going on about how busy you are when you want to…"

"Want to _what_, Gregory?" When Greg didn't answer, Mycroft pressed on, frowning. "I hate to disappoint you but I am actually a very busy man, with important work to do-"

"Yeah, well, you only say that when you're avoiding something you don't want to deal with."

Mycroft sat back in his chair and coolly observed Greg. "What exactly would I be avoiding?"

As if they didn't both know, Greg thought.

"You didn't give me a chance to explain the other day about moving in with you before you had a hissy fit."

Mycroft's lips went all thin and prissy looking. It was a look Greg knew well and he immediately regretted the "hissy fit" comment. Maybe he wasn't as calm as he'd thought.

"Then by all means, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft simpered, "do explain yourself."

"It's…it's fast." Greg blurted, frantically groping for the correct explanation. Christ, but he hated this. He'd never been good talking about emotions and feelings and all that. It had always driven his ex-wife up the wall and she'd called him an emotional clam which she couldn't pry open to save her life. Or save their marriage, he guessed.

"Not _really_ fast but…I know we've been together for a while now- uh, 8 months, but…that's still… I know- I guess it's not that fast but to me…" He took a steadying breath and risked a look at Mycroft who, sat calmly behind his desk, was staring blankly at him. Not judging, not rolling his eyes, his supercilious smirk gone. He was giving him a chance to talk, was actually listening to him. Greg felt better and took a deep breath.

"I made a mistake with Karen." Greg said heavily, the words lifting a weight he hadn't known he carried. It made it easier to breathe and he rolled his shoulders, taking another deep breath. "We were both young- too young- and we rushed into marriage and babies and all that. And I know you're not asking me to marry you- not that I'm not hinting or anything." Greg rushed to clarify, feeling his face heating up. "It's just…well, we rushed it. And it all went to shit after a few years and…I don't want that to happen…with us."

Mycroft sighed. "Gregory-"

"No, let me finish." Greg rushed to say, agitatedly sitting forward in his chair and gripping his hands together. "I-I know it's different with us. And it's not going to end like that but I want to make sure because this is important to me. This is the best relationship I've ever had and I love you, and maybe we've already rushed things and I know we're not ruddy teens or anything so maybe this whole thing is stupid but…"

"Gregory."

Greg took another much needed, deep breath, the sudden rush of air making his head swim. "Yeah?"

"It's ok. I don't mind waiting until you're more comfortable." Mycroft explained in a soft voice. "If that is what you were trying to say?"

Greg nodded, relieved Mycroft had got that from the weird speech he'd just made. Already, he couldn't remember what he'd just said, his words blurring into an indistinct jumble. God, he hoped he hadn't made a complete prat of himself.

Mycroft stared hard at Greg for a few more seconds before smiling and striding around his desk.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings-"Greg began, but Mycroft cut him off, bending down to press a quick kiss to his lips.

"It's really fine, Gregory. I was in the wrong."

Greg blinked, surprised. "Yeah?"

Mycroft gave Greg a mock-severe look. "Yes."

"Well." Greg grinned. "That's a first. Care to repeat that?"

"You heard me the first time."

Greg reached up and twined his fingers with Mycroft, giving them a squeeze. "But…you do understand-?"

"Perfectly."

Greg smiled, relieved. "Thanks. And I'm not saying '_no'_ just…_'not yet_.' And that could be-"

"Gregory." Mycroft interrupted firmly. "I understand."

"Ok. Great…. So, is this the part we have a fantastic make-up shag?" Greg asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"_Here_?"

Greg grinned, making a show of looking around the office and sizing up Mycroft's desk speculatively. "Yeah."

"I don't think so." Mycroft said quelling, blushing as Greg laughed at him.

"Aw. And here I was hoping to bend you over that desk and lick-"

"I have a lot of work to do, Gregory." Mycroft blurted, blushing an even darker shade of red, and Greg laughed at him some more before pecking him affectionately on the cheek.

* * *

**Thanks to TheMadKatter13 for the reference of Mycroft being like the boy who cried wolf. I loved that idea and had to include it here. **

**I lurve Mystrade so much :)**


	15. Keeping The Flat In One Piece

Sherlock fiddled with the knob of his microscope, chin stuck mulishly out, breathing heavily through his nose as his ire with the short little man he'd agreed to marry increased by the second.

John, the short little man in question, had left ten minutes ago after throwing together a quick list of all the essentials they were in desperate need of. The same essentials which Sherlock had "forgot" to buy earlier in the week. As soon as the excuse had slipped past his lips, Sherlock could tell John didn't believe him. He very rarely lied to John and only for very good reasons so John's lack of faith in him was wounding.

That wasn't why Sherlock was angry with the stocky, little tyrant, though. Oh, no.

Before John left (and good riddance, Sherlock thought with a snort), he'd (rudely, in Sherlock's opinion) spun Sherlock around and away from his microscope and bent over to place him on eyelevel. John's usually merry blue eyes had sternly bored into Sherlock's as he firmly ordered:

"Leave the flat in one piece. I mean it, Sherlock. I'll only be gone an hour but I expect to come back to find everything _exactly the way it was_. Nothing on fire. Nothing still smoking. Nothing…nothing _damaged_. Think you can manage that?"

Sherlock hadn't dignified that with an answer.

He'd been vaguely insulted, truth be told.

Just where did John get off? Sherlock was a grown man and a genius besides. He knew how to keep his own flat in one piece while John was gone. He wasn't an errant dog running amok in panic that John had left him as soon as the flat door closed behind his jumpered back. He'd leave such ridiculous antics to Gladstone.

Ok. _Yes_, there had been the incident with battery acid and goose down which had taken an unpleasant turn and had required copious amounts of fire extinguisher, new floorboards, and the quickest trip to the A&E Sherlock could manage before John got back to the flat. (He would've got away with the entire incident if Mrs. Hudson hadn't turned blabbermouth.)

And _yes_, there had also been the experiment concerning dog biscuits which Gladstone (Sherlock rolled his eyes) had got hold of, necessitating a frantic call to the vet and a mad dash across London with the ailing puppy being sick all over the back of the cab. Sherlock had been forced to pay extra for that and the resulting vet bill had been staggering. Sherlock's ears still rang from John's angry shouting.

_Nevertheless_. Sherlock was more than capable of keeping the flat 'in one piece' while John was gone.

The cheek of the miniature Stalin. The wee Napoleon.

Sherlock huffed, set another slide in place, and fiddled some more with the knobs.

His observations were coming along nicely and he had moved forward with his experiment, putting a delicate chemical mixture over a low flame to heat, when he was jerked (rudely, everyone in this flat was rude- excepting himself) out of his musings by the insistent prodding of a small paw against his leg.

He ignored it.

More pawing ensued with a tiny, plaintive whine accompanying.

"What?" He glanced down at the small dog who hopefully wagged its tail and gazed adoringly up at him. Sherlock's heart remained un-melted. "_What is it_? Can't you see I'm busy?"

Gladstone whined. Sherlock accepted his apology.

He rose and sidestepped the fat ball of fur, retreating to the sitting room to rifle through the general mess around his own armchair to find Gladstone's ball. He knew that if he wanted any peace in this flat brimming with rudeness, the best way to go about it was to occupy Gladstone with a toy.

He straightened, Gladstone's favorite red ball clutched in his hand, and whistled for Gladstone. The puppy lurched around and trotted over, tongue lolling out, tail wagging happily at the promise of playtime.

Sherlock tossed the ball across the room, expecting Gladstone to bound after it in a flurry of wagging tail and clicking toenails as he always did when John played with him.

Instead, the puppy glanced behind it, watching the ball bounce down the hallway, then looked back to Sherlock with a puzzled expression.

Morons, Sherlock concluded. Everyone were rude morons.

"Go."

Gladstone wagged his tail once.

"Go get the ball, Gladstone." Sherlock reiterated, mimicking the way John encouraged the puppy, though he thought he lacked the verve and enthusiasm John usually threw into his directives. "Gladstone. Get the ball."

Gladstone wagged his tail again and began to pant.

Sherlock gave up.

He was almost back to the kitchen and his experiment (the chemical mixture had begun smoking promisingly) when he veered down the hallway, stalking after the wayward ball. He snatched it up and brought it back to the sitting room where Gladstone still sat like a portly king.

Sherlock felt utterly ridiculous.

"Gladstone. Look. Ball. Yes? Yes? You know ball?" Sherlock exaggeratedly waved the red ball in Gladstone's face. The puppy panted harder. "Yes? You want the ball? Yes? Go!"

Sherlock gently tossed the ball across the sitting room and this time Gladstone bounded off after it, barking excitedly.

"Good." Sherlock smiled at his success. "Now. Here, Gladstone." Sherlock encouraged. "Bring it to me."

Gladstone pawed at the ball, making it roll across the floor, then trotted happily after it, ignoring Sherlock.

"No-to _me_, Gladstone." Sherlock commanded. John never made Gladstone bring the ball back, but Sherlock was damned if he would chase after him like John did. "_Gladstone_!"

The puppy's head jerked up and he abandoned the lure of the ball to trot back to Sherlock and try and jump on him.

Sherlock shook him off to retrieve the ball and gave the puppy a stern look. "We'll do this until you get it right."

* * *

Half an hour later, John returned to the flat with the shopping to find fire trucks in front of 221B, smoke pouring from their windows, a sizeable crowd gathered on the street to watch the goings-on, and a frazzled-looking Mrs. Hudson off to the side, clutching her robe about her to conceal her nightie.

John's wide eyes took in the hullabaloo then settled on Sherlock, a sour expression on his face, Gladstone tucked safely under his arm, clutching a red ball which Gladstone was happily gnawing on.

"What happened?" John asked, making his way through the crowd to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock refused to answer, refused to even make eye contact with John, and hoisted the puppy closer to his chest.

"Sherlock? What's the damage? Are we-"

"I'm sure the flat is fine, John. It was only a small fire but the alarms and the…_married ones_," Sherlock spit out, casting a dark look behind him where Mrs. Turner's tenants huddled together to observe the hustle and bustle, "smelt smoke and decided to ring the fire department."

John sighed, glancing behind him where tendrils of smoke still drifted from his sitting room windows, catching Mrs. Hudson's eye. Their landlady looked none-too-happy and he winced.

"Was keeping the flat in one piece so difficult, love?"


End file.
